


Through the Eyes of a Child

by Melanie_Athene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Family, Gen, M/M, Post-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-29
Updated: 2011-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elanor remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Eyes of a Child

**Author's Note:**

> Written October 2006 for Waymeet's "Shards of Memory" Challenge.

Do I remember Frodo Baggins?

Well, of course I do! Never you mind how young I was when he left us, and what my age now must be! The line between my personal recollections and the legend of the hobbit are not a bit blurred, thank you very much. But, then, no one who met him could ever forget him. I tell you true... There was something about him, almost an other-worldly quality. Those big, blue eyes of his had a way of looking right into your soul. A hobbit doesn't forget a thing like that.

What was he like?

Well, he was wondrously fair and unfailing kind. Patient and giving. Quiet... and oh-so-sad.

My Da was oft times sad too.

The reason for Da's sadness was obvious as could be, even to the fauntling that I was: Mr. Frodo wasn't at all a well hobbit. He was frail and often quite sickly. Times were, he had to take to his bed for days on end, and I'd tiptoe about the smial trying hard to keep myself silent and out of the way while Mam and Da did their best to make Mr. Frodo well again. But it seemed each time the illness struck him, he came back to us a little weaker than the time before.

Da said it hadn't always been like that. He said that, once upon a time, Frodo Baggins was as hale and jolly as you or me. He could swim across the Brandywine and the current never slowed him down. He climbed trees and stole mushrooms. He loved to dance and sing. His laughter -- his very presence -- lit up a room. But the Ring took all that away from him, you see.

By the time I knew Mr. Frodo, most of his days were spent at that old writing desk of his -- the one that still stands in the study at Bag End. I can remember peeking in the door, watching him write, watching him pause to chew on his quill while he set his thoughts in order, like. Most times, he was too busy to pay me any notice. Most times, Mam or Da would happen along, take me by the hand and lead me away, chiding me softly all the while for bothering Mr. Frodo at his important work. But, sometimes, Mr. Frodo would look up and see me standing there. And he'd smile and gesture for me to come over and sit with him for a spell. I'd climb right up on his lap and his arms would wrap around me. Sometimes, we'd just sit there quietly, his chin resting atop my head. Sometimes, he'd read me a bit of the story he was writing. Those were my favourite times. I've never heard a music as sweet as Mr. Frodo's voice.

They say he poured his heart into the writing of his book.

I'm here to say that that is no lie.

The air fairly bristled around him when he was lost to his writing, the quill gliding across the page as if it scarce could keep up with the thoughts tumbling though his mind. As the day wore on, however, that energy faded, like a candle burning down to naught... as if he'd decanted all of himself into the words on the page and only a dried husk of a hobbit was left sitting in the chair. Then, Da would gently take the pen from Mr. Frodo's hand, and lead him off to bed.

Down though the years, I've read every word over and over again. I've read the Red Book cover to cover-- from front to back and back to front -- a hundred times or more. And, every time, the story comes alive for me. There was a power behind his writing... When I read the words, I am not simply reading about the adventures of some hobbit named Frodo Baggins, I _become_ Frodo Baggins. I see my Da as he was then: all tanned and golden, all sweetly shy and fiercely loyal. I travel along a road fraught with danger. I walk with elves and dwarves and wizards and a king. I tremble before nazguls and orcs and cave trolls and a giant spider. I am tricked by Gollum. I am lost and afraid and yet I continue on with my incredible journey. Because there is nothing else for me to do. Giving up is not an option...

Oh, yes, there is power in this story. I can feel it. Mr. Frodo felt it too. See here? There's a quaver in his writing, like a thought was just too painful to set down without a fight. And, here, the pen digs deep into the paper, as if it was a burden too heavy to bear.

Long before I could read it for myself, Da used to read the Red Book to me. His finger would lovingly trace each word on every page, as if he was caressing the hand of the one who wrote those words so long ago.

See those stains? They're tear splotches. I never saw Mr. Frodo cry a drop, not once in all the time that he was writing. But Da cried every time he read the story.

When I was older, I used to sneak this book down off the shelf to read the passages Da wouldn't read to me. Then, I saw Mr. Frodo's tears. They were plain as plain could be. They flowed between every line; they spilled off the page and seeped into my heart.

It made me weep too.

Mam said she heard the story once, and that was all she needed to hear of it. But Da and I... well, we couldn't get enough. I see Mr. Frodo's words in my dreams, I do. They speak to me in my Da's voice.

But is that remembering Frodo Baggins, you ask -- or is it just a story often told, made familiar by repetition?

I tell you, _I remember_.

I remember sitting by a crackling fire as he tenderly brushed the tangles from my hair.

I remember that he never laughed, though he always had a smile for me.

I remember how thin he felt when I hugged him, not plump as a hobbit is supposed to be.

I remember the light that surrounded him... a magical glow...

Mam couldn't see it. She thought I was a silly chit, prone to flights of fancy. But one time I looked at Da and he just squeezed my hand and smiled. So I know he saw it too, and it was real.

I used to think that maybe Mr. Frodo was an elf. Elves glow, they say. But Da said no, he was just a very special hobbit. One of a kind.

I remember when Mr. Frodo left us. For days afterwards, Mam went around the house with her lips drawn tight and a frown creasing her brow. Sometimes, she'd seat herself in a kitchen chair and fat, silent tears would roll down her cheeks. Other times, she'd stand by the front gate, staring down the road Da and Mr. Frodo had taken.

“Will he be coming back?” Widow Rumble once asked her.

“I don't know,” Mam said quietly.

That puzzled me at the time. Of course, he wasn't coming back. He'd plainly told us so. It took a lot of thinking on this before I realized it wasn't Mr. Frodo that Mam was uncertain of. It was Da.

I had no such worries for myself. He was my Da. Of course, he would come back to me. But as Da wrapped me in his arms on the day of his return, and held me so tight that I could scarcely breathe, I felt the first quiver of doubt run through me. And, suddenly, I knew. He wasn't home to stay. He was just on loan to us for a little while.

Of course, that 'little while' was years and years and years. Good years... bad years... My Da stood by us through them all. He taught us well. He loved us more than he loved his own happiness.

I stand here in the chill of early morning, my cloak flapping in the rising breeze, my arms folded tight around the book that has been like a family member to me.

My Da has gone.

But, just like Mr. Frodo, he hasn't really left us. He lives on: in me... in my brothers and sisters... in his children's children... and beyond.

He lives in the pages of this book.

I will read the stories.

I will pass them on, so future generations will know them too.

I will continue to remember Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee.

And so, my loves, will you.


End file.
